


Slippery Fingers

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Sex, F!Reader - Freeform, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending Massage, Jealous!Master, Massage, Oneshot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Sex Toys, Smut, Sort Of, that's my speciality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:13:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: The Master takes his human 'companion' to a spa on a planet with some slightly different treatments than most earth spas. Then, he realises his mistake.Contents: 'happy ending' massage from an alien, jealousy, yet another unsuccessful trip to a spa planet, smut.
Relationships: The Master (Dhawan)/Reader, The Master (Doctor Who)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	Slippery Fingers

“You never take me anywhere fun!” You had pouted, pushing the Master’s buttons as he researched yet another scheme.

In truth, he did take you places fun. At least, places _he_ thought were fun. But in all of time and space, there had to be more relaxing ways to have fun than overthrowing monarchies and trying to instigate political disasters.

He’d tried taking you hiking, once, but both of you had complained an hour in. He was bored, you were too sweaty, and no one was enjoying themselves. He’d teleported the pair of you back to the TARDIS, and you’d robbed a weapon store instead.

Still, you were determined he should take you _somewhere_ fun.

The Master’s raised an eyebrow, a concealed smile making his lips twitch.

“A theme park, a beach, a… a… a waterpark? I’ll wear something _revealing?_ ” you teased, knowing he would never take you up on the offer.

The flirtation the two of you engaged with was frustratingly endless – just a bit of fun.

You relished in the way his eyes couldn’t meet yours, as he considered your suggestions. Maybe _imagined_ them, too.

“Sounds boring,” he finally commented.

“What’s boring about a little _hedonistic fun?_ ”

He smiled, striding across the outback-interior of his TARDIS to finally meet you beside the console. _Good_. Co-ordinates were being set, the screens displaying a stream of impossibly fast information in a language you couldn’t read.

The Master was planning something.

“Hedonism is about _pleasure_ , dearest,” he ground out the last word, and it made you smile.

You refrained from making the ‘old married couple’ joke that so many strangers made on your travels, because it rang a little too true.

“Yeah?”

“And if you’re in the mood for hedonism, you won’t find that pleasure in an amusement park.”

You raised your eyebrows, leaning against the console very intentionally, so his fingers had to brush your hip to flick the switches he needed. He shot you a knowing glance, as his hand lingered a little too long.

“Where will I find pleasure, _Master?_ ”

For a beat he paused, his lips parted and somehow inviting, mere inches from yours. Then he leant forwards, only to whisper.

“A spa.”

You felt the tension in the room pop, blown-bubblegum pierced by a pin and flying back into your face. Sticky and shocking and _unpleasant_. It took you a second to remember where you were – and who you were with. A retort came uncomfortably slowly, and you startled as the TARDIS began to dematerialise.

“Still trying to get me in a bathing suit?”

The Master winked.

*

As you stepped off the TARDIS, you found yourself in a stiflingly warm room, reaching for the Master’s arm subconsciously as he offered it.

All around you was a plush _whiteness_ , creams and sterile surfaces somehow designed in such a way that the space felt both perfectly welcoming and clean. The TARDIS door locked quietly behind you, disguised as an inconspicuous cupboard, as the Master chose a direction to walk.

“This is one of the most exclusive spas in the whole quadrant – horrendously expensive.”

“Want to split the bill?” you teased, knowing damn well he’d never let you pay for anything.

Not that you could. What was the currency here? Credits? You’d never even considered it.

He gave you a laugh, tightening his hold on your arm as a lavender-skinned member of staff walked past you in mint-green scrubs, politely avoiding looking at you. They were a clear foot taller than the Master, and you tried not to stare.

“I hacked their systems to check,” the time lord boasted, “and it’s the quietest day they’ve ever had. We’re the only patrons.”

“That doesn’t seem very time-travel safe,” you chided, remembering the phrase from the countless times he’d warned you against doing something to change a timeline.

He rolled his eyes, and you couldn’t help smiling fondly.

“It’s okay when I do it,” he sniffed.

Finally, you had found some kind of reception desk.

With nothing more than a smile and a few nods to the softly-spoken receptionist, you watched as the Master handed over a payment stick and arranged everything. You found yourself handed a dressing gown as white as the rest of the décor in this place, and so fluffy and warm you immediately pressed it against your face, much to the Master’s fond amusement.

“It’s really soft,” you explained, and he rolled his eyes.

“Go get changed.”

*

In the end, the cubicles you were offered to for changing were adjacent, and you were quite glad you didn’t have to offer any kind of gender-segregated spa-experience. The Master chattered away as the two of you showered and changed, spa employees silently arriving to administer all manner of hair and skin treatments before you enjoyed the rest of the facilities.

Hair conditioned and skin moisturised, you emerged from the cubicle to see the Master in just a dressing gown – mirroring yours – and the sight made you strangely uneasy. It wasn’t often he dressed down. Certainly never willingly, as far as you could remember. With conditioner combed into his hair and beard, a treatment across his nose, he had never looked less threatening.

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh which he _clearly_ expected, already glowering at you.

“Come on,” he complained, heading for the next room.

He didn’t offer you an arm, but he did hold the door open. As you brushed past him, you noticed they’d combed the hair treatment into his eyebrows. You wondered if choosing the quietest day in history hadn’t been – as you assumed – for your benefit. His pride seemed a little wounded.

“It’s good to relax!” You reassured him, holding out your arm. He ignored it.

“For humans, perhaps.”

You leant into his shoulder briefly, trying to wind him up.

“Even big scary time lords need a break! Though, you do have a disappointingly tame interpretation of _hedonism._ ”

“I was thinking of bodily pleasure, darling.” he purred, “I’m sorry if this doesn’t meet your exacting standards.”

Trying to ignore the rush his implication sent through you, you kept your eyes trained on the soft carpet ahead. _How do they keep it so clean? I suppose no one wears shoes here._

“But I’ll ask you to reserve judgement until you’ve seen how good the massage therapists are. I believe on earth you might call it _sinful_.”

With a contented hum, you walked with him to the open treatment room.

*

As you sat in adjacent chairs, you realised just how naked both of you were, both adjusting your robes to cover yourself as a receptionist approached. She explained everything rapidly, and the Master nodded in understanding. You trusted he would reiterate anything important – you were distracted by the bare slice of his thigh he kept fidgeting to cover.

In lieu of clipboards they handed you tablet-style devices, which seemed familiar enough. The prices of the treatments seemed huge, but the Master told you to ignore them. Maybe the currency here was just inflated. The Master never seemed bothered, at any rate.

He was scrolling through his own options, and you knew he struggled to allow himself to go through anything that might seem _self-care-y._ The parallel massage tables set up ahead of you seemed to suggest you would be in the room with him, and privately you hoped he might allow himself to relax, to trust a highly-skilled stranger, with you right there. 

“What are you getting?” you asked, curiously looking at his screen.

The options were all described luxuriously, with various options for oils and smells and styles, different firmnesses of touch and different problem areas the therapists could focus on. You were settled on some focus on your left thigh, the lingering ache of a muscle there had been bothering you since you’d fallen running from an enraged palace guard last week. Besides that, you had no idea what to select.

“Just something standard,” the Master told you non-committally, and you marvelled at how embarrassing this seemed to be for him.

Then, something caught your eye.

“What are these options?”

You pointed on your own tablet, pointing to one of the most expensive options at the bottom of the page.

_Indulgent twenty-minute full body muscle release with Lerimoya blossom oil, Akesian-style massage and skin treatment. Completed with sexual release and relaxing cool-down._

The Master’s jaw seemed to clench minutely, but you pretended to ignore it.

“Exactly what it says,” he told you curtly.

You scrolled back up to the top of the options, taking a moment to consider his bluntness. You had to admit… there was something very tempting about it. Getting yourself off on the TARDIS made you nervous – a living ship with a consciousness watching you bite back moans as you masturbated a deeply un-erotic thought each time you remembered it. But this was clinical. Self-care.

The Master was a ceaseless flirt, but seemed unable to deliver on his gazes and winks and _comments_. You needed _something._

“Isn’t that… taboo here?”

“As common as a back rub, love.”

His curtness hadn’t ceased, and it irritated you for some reason. So much for being relaxed.

The time lord had impatiently clicked some arbitrary option at the top of his list, no doubt the shortest massage he could get away with. He was already clicking his tongue, holding the device out to be collected by the receptionist. You took a deep breath.

He was always telling you to _take what you want_ and be _hedonistic_. You scrolled down quickly, selecting the option, selecting the areas of your body which hurt (not least that damn thigh) before holding out the device.

You could feel his eyes on you, your cheeks burning, and some deep part of you igniting at the thought of what was about to happen. _You were looking forward to it_ , you realised. _So much._

“Chosen something expensive?” he ground out, the joke landing flat as his tone seemed oddly monotonous.

“If you’re paying, then of course.”

It was only as the tablets were taken gently from you by a kindly receptionist that you remembered the massage room would be shared. A screen seemed to have appeared silently between the massage tables, and you hoped your look of appreciation was understood by the alien.

*

There was something surreal about being asked to undress just a screen away from the Master, knowing he was doing the same on the other side, mere feet away as the lights dimmed and incense burned.

The spa workers were softly spoken and considerate, putting you at ease immediately as you lay down, feeling acutely aware of your body against the table. You weren’t sure where to put your arms, fidgeting, until warm oily hands smoothed them down by your sides, and you fought your instincts in order to stay still.

You wondered how the Master was doing. He wasn’t the best at letting other people touch him. At being vulnerable. He hated leaving his back exposed, always afraid someone would stab him in it.

You thought, for a moment, about trying to talk to him.

Would that be rude? Would it help him?

But talking felt uncomfortable, laying like this, and you couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

As large, warm hands started their work on your bare back, you let all thought of conversation go. You closed your eyes, feeling the smooth, gentle release of your muscles as they were expertly relaxed. The larger frames of the aliens here seemed to make them strong, pressure spread across fingertips which felt human-enough, the smell and warmth of the room tempting you near sleep, wringing soft noises of approval from you which you didn’t bother to conceal.

The time seemed to stretch on forever, in a delicious, in-urgent way you rarely experienced with the Master. He was always in a rush, unable to stand still even with a time machine.

This was, you conceded, luxurious and hedonistic: pleasure above all else. Pure self-indulgence. The pursuit of nothing but feeling _good_.

You could almost forget he was there. Soft music and the gentle movements of the massage therapists were the only sounds, until suddenly he was _there_ again. For seconds at a time, in small noises, his presence seemed looming. The shifting of his beard against the table beneath him, a grunt of discomfort as a knot was released in his back, once a snap to _not touch my neck_.

He settled, soon enough, his treatment seeming more painful and intense than yours. You could hear the slap of skin onto his, the breath forced from his lungs as a considerable force was applied to his body. You tried to tune it out, each time the masseuse seemed to be hurting him. Likely by his own choice, you lamented. It was short, too. Your massage therapist had only just begun to work on the ache in your thigh, doing a marvellous job of easing the pain, when his massage was slowly finished.

Your body felt as though it was melting into the table, pleasantly warm with the oil and the heat of the room. Only because you strained your ears, you heard his masseuse leave the room, with a gentle instruction to lay still until they returned.

It was strangely difficult to enjoy the rest of your massage as you wondered what he was thinking about, just laying there. You had feared he might ignore their instructions and move, but he seemed to be behaving himself for the day.

A gentle murmur of “turn over for me” brought you back to your body, made your eyes snap open and a sudden rush of blood to the head caused you to feel disoriented.

“Take your time,” the massage therapist coaxed, as their soft hands guided you in turning slowly, careful not to let you fall off the table.

You had forgotten what was coming next.

The low murmur of something indiscernible started, a humming noise you soon tuned out, as hands found their way across your stomach. You felt yourself clench at the contact. This was different. Slower, more sensual touches, beyond the realm of what you would consider professional. You bit your lip, toying with stopping the _treatment_ early, until you realised the source of the quiet buzzing.

As one huge hand began to knead at your breast, the other reached for the slipperiness between your legs.

Vibrations against your clit made you gasp, their expertly firm touches pulling you lazily yet inevitably closer towards orgasm. Your entire body felt dragged along with the certainty of a current in a river, moved as surely as gravity, pleasure growing stronger and stronger. As fingers pried your willing, limp legs apart, you let your hands roam your own oily skin, no longer caring about the noises you let slip past your lips, the quiet begs for _more._

The calls of _yes_ , _please, fuck._

For a second, the Master’s fidgeting pulled you back into the room, making you gasp. But then the buzzing sped up, rubbing fingers joining it, and your mind went blank.

*

The Master grit his teeth, knowing _nothing_ good could come from letting you tick that stupid box. It had been a kind of dare, a test of whether you’d actually do it. He thought he’d been playing good odds, in truth, even as a feeling of something uneasy had risen in his stomach at the thought of it.

A happy ending massage.

Or rather, _you_ receiving a happy ending massage.

Perhaps he’d underestimated his own fondness of the pure art pleasure seeking, because his barely-relaxed body was already tensing again just listening to the hum of whatever tool they were using to finish the _complete sexual release_ you had requested _._

The whole time that damn alien had been abusing the muscles of his back, he had been wondering what you’d selected. If you actually had the nerve to go through with it. The treatment was popular here, he knew. In fact, the spa was famous for it. Famously _good_ at it. Human anatomy and human pleasure were close enough to theirs that the richest interstellar-travellers from earth colonies would begin to arrive just a few years from the date he had chosen. They would all be seeking out the exact treatment which had caught your eye.

A strange thing to be famous for, he supposed, but popular. Certainly lucrative, and – _was that moan?_

*

It felt like it lasted an eternity, listening to how those… creatures finished their supposed-treatment, moans and calls and staccato words leaving your voice with a keening, sensual desperation he had never heard from you before. The slick sounds of your body had accompanied the buzzing of that device in the most insufferable symphony he had ever heard. He had considered leaving, so many times, gritting his teeth and trying to school his body into nonchalance as you finally came. The Master tried to block it out as you moaned, and laughed, and thanked the massage therapist, and apologised for thanking them… joked with the alien, no doubt glowing and coated with sweat and oil, flushed, your pants filling the room alongside contented hums.

He wondered why he couldn’t _stand it_.

“I’ll leave you for a few minutes to calm down,” the massage therapist had told you gently, and he had grimaced as you gave a breathy, giggling reply.

“I think I’ll need it.”

Then they were alone. And nothing should have changed _dammit_ , and yet everything had. And he damned Rassilion and all those other bastards who decided time lords should be sexless and uncomfortable naked because _fuck_ nothing had prepared him for this, no matter how much he pretended he was nothing like them.

He loathed to admit when humans were better than him at something, but in this situation, he longed to be the kind of species who could meet your eye after this.

You laughed again, suddenly, airily, and he wondered if that was supposed to be some kind of cue for him to say something.

Something witty.

Something clever.

Something _him._

“All okay?” he choked out.

He was still on his front, and frankly dreading standing to change, and he wondered how you were laying. On your back, still, he presumed. All _sticky_ and _sweaty_ and _mile-a-minute heartbeat_ like humans tended to be. He could smell pheromones from here, loathing his body for how he was reacting.

Yet another reason to dread standing.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” you called back, so obviously sated and giggly from just your voice.

“It was exactly what you chose, love.”

The pet name sounded unnatural, forced, and he prayed you were too whacked out on hormones to notice. The spa worker slunk back into the room, and he took a moment to hate them, to hate those fingers which had been slippery and clever all over you. His stomached clenched as he wondered if they’d been _inside of you_. 

As the lavender and mint form disappeared between the divider, the Master shoved his face roughly back against the table.

 _This room is too hot_ , he grumbled silently to himself, _stupid human temperatures_.

He wondered if you were cold, your skin risen in goosebumps, or if you were warm. Pliable. Slippery and soft and –

“How are you feeling?”

“Perfect.”

He could hear the stupid smile in your voice.

“Glad to hear it, if you’re ready to stand for me…”

The Master couldn’t help the furrow of his forehead, the dig of his fingernails into the soft surface of the table. Then he heard the matching gasps of you and the massage therapist, half-way pushing himself up to run around there and save you from whatever had happened and… you were fine.

Laughing, apologising for being lightheaded, saved from falling by the spa worker who had righted you. They were coaxing you to be slow, to be careful, and suddenly the Master was remembering the times he’d bellowed at you to go faster. To push your human physiology, to keep up with him. He could hear his own rough shouts, loud and harsh enough that they had made everyone around you wince with sympathy.

Then, he wondered why those thoughts were in his mind. And why that pang of guilt was making his hearts ache.

His damned masseuse had come back, no doubt from a smoke break or a lunch break or whatever these purple creatures _did_ , helping him quickly into his robe. They offered him far less _comfort_ than your massage therapist seemed to think was appropriate, still fussing and saying goodbye on the other side of the stupid divider.

He waved them away with a curt “good, yes, thank you.”

Then, he found himself looking straight at you.

And he couldn’t stand it.

*

The Master led you from the room with a

“I can see why this is so popular,” you smiled, legs a little weak and your entire body feeling raw underneath your gown.

The Master ignored you.

The softness of the material was slightly tacky against your oily skin and you pulled it closer as you trailed behind the Master, enjoying a slight giddiness and feeling lightheaded, toes digging into the carpet as you took slow steps.

He seemed in a rush to get to the pool, swinging the door open, ignoring you as he let it swing closed after him.

The cloudy water of an oversized pool was pink tinted and sweetly aromatic, none of the chlorine smell you would expect on earth. You took in the fragrance with an indulgent sigh, refusing to give up your relaxation, even as a nagging feeling refused to leave you.

The Master was unhappy.

He waited for you to look away before quickly sliding into the water, chest-deep as he rested his elbows against the poolside behind him. He looked straight ahead as you disrobed and slid into the water beside him, the emptiness of the whole complex striking you yet again, as a sole employee passed whisper-quiet through the room.

The high vaulted ceiling was as simply designed as the rest of the complex, beautiful in its simplicity, and you looked up at it as you moved slowly through the warm water.

“Are you okay?” you asked the ceiling, hoping the Master might deign to answer instead.

He hummed, something affirmative and insincere. You let yourself float back, buoyant in the cloudy water, your toes breaking the water near the Master. He regarded you with a judgemental curl of his lip, before fixing his eyes on the wall opposite.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The Master didn’t reply, he just scoffed. You pouted, the water lapping at your face, paddling to stop yourself drifting into him.

“Just trying to have a conversation,” you grumbled.

Your words rolled off him like the sweat off his forehead, oil and water mixing on both of your skin, the heat of the room just a few degrees shy of stifling.

“Does this feel warmer to you, because you’re colder?”

He nodded. You rolled your eyes at him, finally standing in the water, crouching a little to keep your shoulders covered by the flat surface of it. You waded towards him, closing in on his personal space until the underwater bump of his leg against yours made you stop.

“Too hot?”

“Fine,” he ground out, rolling his head back towards the side of the pool.

You glimpsed the sweat and oil on his neck as you let your eyes drift over him, knowing he wouldn’t catch you while his gaze was trained on the ceiling.

“You’re in a bad mood.”

“I’m not.”

“Are.”

He gave an exasperated exhale, pinching his nose, and you watched the movement of his shoulders as he shifted his weight. You’d never seen so much bare skin, and you couldn’t help staring.

Sidling closer to him, you felt the brush of your leg against his once again, not recoiling. The Master tensed, and you ended up beside him by the pool.

“You _are._ ”

All but whispering in his ear, you grinned as a shudder passed through him. The Master didn’t find it as funny, flopping his arm back beside him, wincing as it brushed your bare breast. He pulled away at lightspeed, shaky and sudden in his movements. You were getting to him.

He kept his lips tightly sealed, teeth clenched, making the muscles of his jaw bulge slightly beneath his beard.

A door opened, intended to be quiet but deafening in the tense room.

The Master snapped his eyes open at the noise, before moving away from you. He ducked his head underwater, rubbing product and oil from his face, before re-emerging with his fringe plastered to his face.

You laughed as he tried to brush the hair from his eyes, and that was the final straw.

“You’re insufferable sometimes,” he snapped.

The Master marched to the side of the pool, soaking his robe in his eagerness to cover himself as he climbed the steps, turning to face you for just long enough to reveal something unsettling in his glare.

“I’ll wait in the TARDIS. Don’t hurry.”

His curt words remained in the room longer than him, echoing as the door closed itself softly behind his indignantly retreating form.

“Grumpy,” you sighed to the vaulted ceiling, floating on your back, and wishing that high ceiling housed the consciousness of the TARDIS.

At least when you argued on the TARDIS, you knew the ship was (usually) on your side. Maybe her gentle hum would have alleviated your guilt.

You managed to float in the pool a little longer, swimming for a bit, trying to relax. It was no use. With a mournful last duck under the water, you emerged from the pool, not hurrying to cover yourself now you were alone.

What had the Master been so pissed off by, you wondered. Hadn’t he known what this place was like? His research was usually meticulous – in fact you suspected he tended towards places he had been before when planning days out for you. Was it the nakedness? The touch of a stranger, in that massage parlour? Or simply the strangeness of a place devoid of stress and terror and chaos.

You’d thought about your life with him a lot, of late. About how you couldn’t just keep seeing the darkness of the universe. Perhaps it was naïve, but you had hoped that his recent movements towards flirting with you might have been the start of a few nicer trips. Of something a bit… _more_ with him.

But he was acting like the bastard you’d first known, no longer softer, kinder, towards you.

Somewhere the two of you had taken steps backwards. And now he was fighting with you at a _spa_ , of all places.

You pulled the robe tighter around you, gave a passing member of staff a tight smile, as you found the cupboard door which led to the TARDIS.

 _Deep breath_ , you told yourself.

Stepping into a different dimension always felt a little disorientating, but the TARDIS was your home now. Welcoming in her warmer, yellow light as the door closed behind you and cut off the spa’s true white lights and pristine décor.

You saw the form of the Master the second you stepped inside, the first thing your eye was drawn to. He was in a different gown, a thicker, longer one. Dark purple like his coat, and just as modest in its coverage.

He was leaning heavily on the console, hunched over with his hair messily towel-dried and barely styled. He’d clearly made some attempt, then gotten frustrated.

“Sorry for being annoying earlier,” you tried to weakly joke.

The Master didn’t even turn to regard you, he just tensed his shoulders, leaning defensively closer to the ship’s console.

“You still _reek_ of that oil,” he spat, “and hormones.”

Even across the room, you took a step back from him. You pulled self-consciously at the neck of your robe, hoping he couldn’t see how genuinely shaken you were.

You couldn’t reply, biting down a surge of emotion at his rejection and turning from him, inspecting a side table by the door. The TARDIS sent a wave of comfort through you, but it only made things harder.

Highlighted what her pilot wouldn’t give you.

After a few seconds of silence the Master whirled around, a furrow in his brow.

“Say something.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You had nothing to say to him.

He strode closer to you, and you stepped back again, closer to the doors.

“I’m sorry!” you blurted out, an uncertainty in your tone which made the Master take pause.

“Why?”

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know why you were meant to be sorry.

“For upsetting you. Whatever I did, I…”

You trailed off as the Master regarded you for a second, something approaching genuine conflict on his face as he fully took in your appearance. Wet hair, dressing gown tightly around your skin, shivering from the change in temperature… you wondered what he saw.

He sighed heavily.

“‘Whatever you did’?”

The words weren’t cruel. It was a question. But he could be terrifying, even in a bath robe. And you watched his eyes, looking for a trick or a spark of something more troubling.

He was searching your eyes too, looking for sincerity. For some kind of comfort.

“You took me there, and I really don’t know what I did… why you hated it so much. But… I’m guessing it was my fault.”

To your surprise, he pulled you into a gentle hug, cradling your head as he pulled you near to him. He wasn’t squeezing you, your bodies hardly touching. He was just… holding you close to him.

“I don’t like being touched,” he mumbled, his words over your shoulder, like they were trying to evade being heard.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into –”

“No I just… I don’t like _you_ being touched. Either. It makes me nervous.”

“Nervous?” you echoed back to him.

You felt his fingers twitch against your head, tightening and loosening slightly.

“Maybe… I just… I couldn’t stand them touching you. Or seeing you. I wasn’t expecting that.”

In the silence which passed between you, you wondered if he was mulling over his own words. If he even suspected what you heard in them, the vivid green between the lines of what he’d said: jealousy.

“If there had been anyone else there, other guests, I would’ve made us leave. But you seemed happy and…”

He was struggling. Struggling to articulate himself, maybe even struggling to come to terms which his own motivations.

While bragging and flirting and banter came as easily as breathing to the time lord, sincerity was something much harder.

“You didn’t like being vulnerable?” you prompted, afraid to push him too much.

Something like an awkward, coughing laugh happened in the back of his throat – you only heard it because you were so close to him.

“I suppose you could say that.”

Snaking your arms around him, you pulled the Master closer, feeling your bodies properly together between thick material. He sighed indulgently, and you smiled, face hidden from him.

“You should have said. We could have left,” you tried to comfort him, “tell me, next time. We’ll just leave.”

He gave you the silent treatment again, though you suspected this time it was not unkind. He just genuinely didn’t know what to say.

You tried a different tact, returning to something more familiar.

“You really hate how I smell?” you teased.

He groaned, and you squeezed him just to make him groan more.

“You don’t smell like _you_.”

That was sweet, you conceded, rubbing his back in a few soft, gentle sweeps across the towelling of his dressing gown. He gulped.

“Did you enjoy your massage?” he asked suddenly, and edge to his words which made the question seem suspiciously loaded.

You tried not to let your wariness show, holding your posture perfectly still.

“I did. It was… intense. Good though. How about you?”

He gave a low laugh, and the knot in your stomach grew tighter, pulled taught by his sudden change in demeanour. He was _holding you_. In the way he might hold a hostage, not a friend. It made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, made you open your eyes and look across the TARDIS for any sign of danger.

You couldn’t know it, but you suspected that if you tried to walk away his tensed arms would stop you.

“ _My_ massage wasn’t nearly as satisfying, if the noises you made were anything to go by, _love_.”

The laugh you forced was barely loud enough to leave your lips. You felt the Master’s breath on your neck.

“Tell me what they did to you, love.”

“It was just… um… massage oil. And… they did my back. And rubbed that muscle I was complaining about, the one in my thigh. It feels a lot better now, actually.”

The Master stood silently, waiting. _More_ , you could hear him thinking, _more, love._

“They turned me over, massaged my front, and then they did the happy ending bit,” you laughed, awkwardness creeping into your tone where you tried so hard to suppress it.

“How did they make you feel?” he asked, an edge to his voice which barrelled straight past the boundaries of flirtation he had set before.

His voice was gravelly, seductive, each word painfully intentional as he whispered the syllables in your ear.

“Good,” you choked out, and he shook his head with a quiet, dark chuckle.

“No, darling, tell me what they _made you_ feel. What did they do?”

Your mouth was dry, the TARDIS and your robe too hot, constricting against your sensitised skin.

You could feel yourself getting wetter, clenching, the faintest, most frustrating waves of pleasure in your clit. The Master was tense all over, and as you fidgeted, you felt him, hard against the front of your thigh.

“They hid you from me. Behind a barrier. Tell me what they _did to you_.”

In some deep part of your mind, a part which wasn’t clouded by lust and overwhelmed by the Master, pieces clicked into place. How he hated being exposed, but hated _you_ being exposed more. His curtness, after you asked someone else to touch you. You damned him for being too proud to admit what he wanted, before you sought out pleasure elsewhere.

“They made me relaxed,” you began, “so relaxed. With these strong, gentle touches. All over. And then they turned me over, and I was so relaxed, I didn’t even notice how turned on I was getting.”

You paused, hoping the Master wanted to hear your words. That this was what he was asking for. His ragged breath told you enough. In his silence, he seemed to be begging for more. As you spoke, remembering the moment, you could feel your body responding to the memory. Growing wetter at saying it all out loud, at the knowledge the Master was desperately hanging off every word, his own arousal matching yours.

“When I was on my back, it was more oil. All over. Across my chest and my stomach and dripping between my legs and that was when I remembered what I had asked for.”

His grip on you tensed, his body thrumming with energy as it seemed to encircle you, and you forced yourself to conceal a smirk.

“The touches started on my stomach. They were teasing me, working me up. Then they moved to my nipples – I think your massage was done by then,” you pretended to think about it, and your tangent made him press his body against you insistently. You could feel that delicious jealousy, almost making him _growl_ , as you paused.

“The oil was amazing. It smelled amazing and felt… _so_ good. I don’t know if there was something in it, or if the masseuse was just _that good_ ,” you felt him shift again, privately delighting in how worked up he was getting.

“Then they had this toy _thing_. I never saw it, my eyes were closed, but… it was wonderful. I don’t think I’ve ever felt better, I can’t even remember it I just…”

“Came.”

The Master’s hoarse voice felt like it was in your very head, and maybe it was, his telepathy sending a powerful jolt through you as you felt his arousal and jealousy and anger for just a second.

“You let them touch you… those _aliens_ , those _strangers –_ ”

“You’re an alien too,” you reminded him, another rush of irritation rushing forwards from him.

“I am the best alien you’ve ever met, love, and you’d do well to remember that.”

He was so close to you, and your skin was so hot, you shivered at the snarl in his words.

“I was right there, and – ” he fumbled for words, and you smiled, pulling against his grip a little so he could _see._ His eyebrow raised in disapproval.

“You were right there, and _what_?” you challenged.

The Master shifted on his feet, his arms loosening around you, before he leant in again. His beard brushed the softened skin of your cheek, nuzzling, the slight scratch making you shudder from the _rawness_ of it all. He inhaled deeply, pressing his nose into the swathe of skin beneath your ear, tutting with a condescension that sent a jolt of heat down your body.

“You still _reek_ of sex. Even more now, darling. Do you want to go back? _Cheat on me again?_ ”

“I wasn’t aware we were in a relationship.”

With a bitter laugh, his hands found your ribs. Their grip was higher than they ought to be, brushing the underside of your breaths over the robe, squeezing just a tiny bit too tight. You reached for the belt of his robe, your own threat held between your fingers as you assessed the flimsiness of the knot he’d tied.

His fingers dug in tighter.

“Then I’d better make you aware,” his words came out as a threat, but you didn’t feel intimidated. The muscles in your abdomen clenched, and he noticed, fingers spreading wider on your ribs. “Can’t have you going elsewhere again.”

He was teasing, but you wondered if he had perceived what you did as cheating. His surliness made it seem that way.

“Think you can convince me?” you muttered, already far more focused on the roaming of his fingers, closer to the opening of your robe.

“Obviously.”

He stepped away, and you missed the contact already, searching his dark eyes. They were unfocused with lust. Flickering lazily and obviously to your lips. His robe had loosened slightly, a sliver of chest hair exposed below the smooth skin of his neck, and you didn’t bother to conceal the bite of your lip as you trailed your eyes down across his body.

“It really bothered you that much?”

In lieu of an answer, you found your head cradled in his hands, fingers haphazardly strewn across your face and head as he pulled you in, his lips against yours. When the Master kissed you, it was everything you’d imagined. His lips were intense and firm and bruising, but not rough. The fingers wrapped around your skull were firm, intense, but not painful. Not aggressive, not trying to hurt you, just demanding _all of you_.

The rest of the day melted away, the TARDIS’ presence disappeared, until all your senses could perceive was him. You could feel the wetness of his lips as he kissed you so desperately you thought he might sob, hear the sound of his breathing, the squeak of your shoes on the floor as he dragged you closer still to his body. You couldn’t smell anything his skin, the oil and the water from the spa mixed with sweat and the TARDIS’ laundry detergent and _him_.

Even the press of his fingers on your head made you close your eyes, focussing everything on the Master.

Your fingers fumbled to reach him, hold him _somehow_ , finding the neck of his gown and pulling, blindly reaching to run your hands across his chest hair while you fought to open the gown further. Through where he was kissing you, you could feel his amusement, the smile which threatened to break your kiss as his hands slowly released their hold on your head.

With a slight tug at his chest hair you finally broke the kiss, pulling away as he hissed at the pull of your fingers across his

You thought you should probably say something, as the two of you stood panting, eyes glazed with _want_ , but there were no words which could serve this moment.

Your fingers went back to the belt of his robe, tugging greedily until the knot was almost free. As you were about to undress him completely, his hands covered yours, holding them in place against the slight swell of his stomach.

“My room,” he demanded curtly, though the words came out stilted and strange as he fought to catch his breath.

“If its closest,” you agreed, happy to fluff his ego in exchange for that sincere, indulgent smile which spread across his face.

In a strangely sweet gesture, he reached for your hand, pulling you eagerly towards his room. You had never been in the space before, but you barely had time to appreciate it. The dark mahogany of the furniture and the scattered books, stolen goods, and components were completely ignored by the Master as he tugged you by the hands towards a four-poster, shoving blankets and books aside. When the bed was clear he pulled you bodily around in a wide circle, before shoving you back onto the bed with a boyish grin.

Unable to resist his glee, you let yourself flop back, the robe riding up and opening at the neck, much to the Master’s delight. He was quick to try and get the white fabric off you, one deft motion undoing the belt at your waist, pulling it open down the centre with a flourish that made you roll your eyes fondly at him.

You had expected a smartass comment, some kind of brag or joke, but instead he sank over your torso. Lips pressed to the gap between your breasts, he was astonishingly serious.

The room was silent aside from the sounds of your breathing, the gentle smack of his lips as he kissed his way down your body, and the sincerity of the moment took your breath away.

The Master wasn’t a man easily moved to reverence or seriousness, not by beautiful palaces or ornate temples or tragically burning civilisations. He always had a cruel remark, a joke.

His astonished silence meant more to you than words ever could.

When he reached the slope of your pubic bone, he looked up at you, hands flat on the bed either side of your hips.

“Can I fuck you?”

Your voice shuddered as you told him ‘ _yes’_ , a ‘ _please’_ wrung from your lips as his tongue found your clit.

He looked up at you again through long eyelashes, seeming somehow, despite the context, surprised.

“Are you sure?”

“Please,” you repeated.

One hand reached down for his chin, stroking the line of his jaw in a mute reassurance. He smiled softly, lips pressed tightly together.

Your gentle touch on his jaw followed him as he moved up your body to kiss you again, gently, with all the veneration which seemed to have overcome him since the console room. His soft lips against yours made you groan, and he paused for a second, as though afraid you might suddenly be made of delicate porcelain and shatter from the gentlest pressure. You kissed him back harder and relished in the rumble of a moan from deep in his throat.

Then he was standing, eyes refusing to flicker from staring into yours, pulling your legs astride his hips and slipping his fingers into the wetness between your legs, fingers methodically stretching you for him.

“Good?” he asked, fingers toying at your entrance, refusing to find the nerves you wanted him to be playing with.

You nodded, trying to be patient.

“Good.”

With one last look of wonderment, he lined himself up and sank into you. You broke his eye contact, throwing your head back, whining at the stretch of him inside you. His hands reached to hold your legs, a thumb stroking across your thigh, before he gently started to move.

“Good?”

“Good.”

He thrust slowly, almost tentatively, as though trying to convince himself he wouldn’t hurt you. His pace gradually quickened, desperation growing on his face as pleasure built inside of you, until suddenly you were holding yourself in place on the mattress and the Master was grunting with the force of his hips meeting yours. Your feet dug into his back, supported by his hands holding your legs up, one arm thrown over your eyes as the other desperately tried to stop him from shunting you further up the bed.

All you feel was _him_ , the desperation in his thrusts, the tightening of his hands on your thighs as you subconsciously clenched around him, your desperation mounting in tandem with his.

“Tell me,” you panted, a fistful of his sheets clenched painfully tight as he pounded into you.

“What?”

He was barely there, you realised, uncomprehending and stupid with pleasure. A groan ripped from his throat as you shifted your hips, his hands gripping your ass to keep you in place.

“Tell me you were jealous.”

“Furious,” he grunted.

“Because you were _jealous,”_ you ground out, feeling the Master reach between your legs, distracting you with the roughness of his fingers across your swollen clit.

You arched your back, uncovering your eyes to glare up at his sweaty face, his eyes trained hungrily on your body. As he looked up to your face, neck and stomach clenching with the strain of keeping up the furious rhythm of his thrusts, you laughed at the grin spreading wide across his gritted teeth.

His fingers on your clit fumbled for a moment, before letting you reach down to take over, your own slippery fingers barely needing to work across your clit before you gasped at the break of pleasure washing over you, the Master’s hips stuttering, struggling to stave off his own orgasm.

As you came down, he slumped over you, fucking you more and more erratically until he was coming inside of you, fingers scrambling to grip onto your body any way he could, pulling you closer as he gasped for air. You couldn’t help watch, mouth hanging over and sweat mixing with his, marvelling as he finally softened and caught his breath on top of you.

“Since it seems to really matter to you,” he mumbled into your neck, “I’ll say it. I was jealous.”

You laughed. He was heavy on top of you, his chest crushing yours as he laughed too, face pressed to the crook of your neck. You could feel his teeth against the sensitive skin connecting to your shoulder, the wetness of his mouth as he laughed, exasperated and high from the hormones.

“You were jealous!” you teased breathlessly, the words making a barest attempt at being sing-song, before his lips pressed against your neck gently.

“I was jealous,” he replied soberly, his hair brushing at you as he fidgeted, taking his weight off you a little. His legs were intertwined with yours, and you could feel the contractions of his muscles as he moved. “So unbelievably jealous.”

Even as you dedicated his words – this moment – to memory, you could feel sleep pulling at you. You sorely needed showers, and food, and probably water, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“So we can’t go back?” you asked airily, if only to feel the rumble of a short, exasperated laugh in the Master’s chest.

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I want a massage?” you whined, pouting for show, then gasping as the Master teasingly pinched at your hip.

“Then you’ll have to ask me.”

You pinched his hip in retaliation, his thigh jostling yours as he fidgeted irritably.

“Hm, I can live with that. If you’re any good.”

He was halfway to sleep too, tugging a displaced blanket across the pair of you blindly with his free arm.

“I’m the best, darling. Obviously.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's been so long since I wrote smut! Thanks for reading! And apologies for the use of the slightly-antiquated term 'masseuse'! 
> 
> This was voted for by followers over on tumblr, @13atoms. I post much more over there.
> 
> Comments always appreciated <3


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